


The Pete Wentz Guide to Time Travel (Panic! At the Disco’s Excellent Adventure)

by skoosiepants



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Panic At The Disco, The Academy Is...
Genre: Alternate Reality, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-04-02
Updated: 2007-04-02
Packaged: 2017-10-06 20:26:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skoosiepants/pseuds/skoosiepants
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You're giving us a <i>time traveling</i> Buick Le Sabre?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Pete Wentz Guide to Time Travel (Panic! At the Disco’s Excellent Adventure)

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, this is a riff off of Bill &amp; Ted's, only with more music and less history. Huge thanks to castoffstarter for beta'ing this, and for agreeing with me about the absolute HILARITY of the Buick Le Sabre.
> 
> This is gen, but it's slashy gen, with Brendon/Jon and Brendon/Spencer undertones.
> 
> [download the soundtrack](http://community.livejournal.com/muse_to_match/1560.html)

The first time Brendon woke up to find a shadow standing over him, he freaked the fuck out. Seriously. That kind of shit was not cool.

He screamed, or he _tried_ to scream, but the shadow slapped a hand over his mouth before anything resembling a sound slipped out, which meant, hey, not a ghost, but, unsurprisingly, that really wasn't all that comforting.

Then a voice said, "Listen, Brendon, hey," fingers and thumb biting into Brendon's cheeks, and Brendon landed a solid blow on the shadow's thigh and it cursed and pressed down and said, "Jesus Christ, _listen_, okay?" and Brendon was getting short on air, so he sort of slumped back, heart pounding, and the voice went on, "You're going to have to make a decision, all right? And you're going to want to say no, obviously, because there's this guy who's completelyyeah, you're not gonna really like him, you know? But say yes. Definitely say yes. It's gonna be fucking _great_."

And then he let him go and there was a split-second of white-blue light, small and square like the screen of a cell phone, and the figure was gone.

Brendon tangled shaky fingers into his blankets, pulling the covers up to his chin. He took a deep, panicky breath, a stuttering inhale that left his body limp and sweaty when it seeped back out.

"Holy shit," he whispered. That was _insane_.

And then Brendon realized the voice had sounded an awful lot like Pete Wentz.

*

When Brendon tagged along with Brent to meet Ryan and Spencer, he didn't mention his Wentz-vision. There was very little he ever actually felt the need to hold back on, but saying that Pete Wentz had visited him in the dead of night to tell him to join their band was more of a "Wow, Brendon's fucking nuts" type of thing than an over-share. He liked Ryan and Spencer. A lot. Brent was sort of a tool, but whatever. Pete'd warned him.

He played his guitar and sang a little and Ryan's eyes went wide and he gave him this huge, gorgeous grin and that was that. He was in. He was in, and it was _fantastic_.

Over the next few weeks, Brendon made himself more and more at home in Spencer's house, 'cause, really, _Spencer_, and he started singing lead – which _rocked_ – and he realized it was always RyanandSpencer and Brent, so he wasted no time getting in on that sandwich. He squeezed himself right next to Ryan, who opened up and let him hold his hand and touch his face, and he wrapped his other arm around Spencer and just. Pushed his boundaries. For every inch Spencer gave him, he took two.

For a while, they made it work.

*

The second time Brendon woke up with a shadow standing over him, he was a lot calmer. Still freaked out, because _Pete Wentz_, seriously, but. He totally only gasped, near silently, and Pete didn't have to hold him down at all.

"Hi," he said, squinting into the darkness, then he thought, wow, it was _dark_, and what if it _wasn't_ Pete, but the same exact voice as before said, "Hi," right back.

Then Pete said, "So," and it was really dark, but Brendon could make out the shape of his mouth as he talked, the lighter impression of his teeth. "So," Pete said again, "your parents really don't like this band idea."

Brendon shook his head, because that was kind of an understatement. "Nope." Basically, he was grounded until the end of time. Or until he turned eighteen, whichever came first. So, like, a handful of months. It wouldn't be that bad, except it was looking like disownment was on the horizon, too.

"I'm supposed to encourage you and shit, because you're. You can't even _imagine_ how good it's going to be, so"

"I was thinking, hey, why not cosmetology, right?" Brendon cut in, chewing on his thumbnail.

"What?"

"Something to fall back on," Brendon said. "When everyone realizes I'm out of my mind. Dude, you're _Pete Wentz_. You're in my bedroom at," he glanced at the clock, "3:15 a.m. There's something wrong with this. There's something so wrong with this that I can't even"

"Technically, I'm not your Pete Wentz."

"Okay, wait, I have a Pete Wentz?"

"Technically," he paused, "yeah."

Huh. That was weird. Not like the whole kit-n-caboodle wasn't well past weird and into surreal, but whatever. "Okay."

"So, yeah," Pete continued, moving closer to the bed, "stick with it and, you know, everything'll work out." Then he leaned down and cupped Brendon's chin and murmured, "I've always wanted to do this," and kissed him. A long, slow kiss, tongue sliding across his lower lip, oddly more affectionate than hot, really, and then Pete was gone, poof, before they even pulled fully apart.

*

"So Pete Wentz likes our sound."

Brendon jerked his head up from his cereal. "What?"

"The demo," Ryan clarified. "He likes the demo, so."

Brendon's spoon clattered into his bowl, splattering milk on the placemat. "Seriously?" he asked.

Ryan nodded. "He's flying in for the show."

"Seriously?" he said again, eyes wide. "That's. That's awesome." Of course, the thing was, they'd never actually performed for a crowd before. They might have to step up their practicing a bit.

*

It wasn't until the next day that the silver Buick Le Sabre dropped out of the sky and almost crashed into Spencer's mom's Toyota, smoke pluming up from the undercarriage as the tires bounced on the asphalt, leaving the air thick with burned rubber and ozone.

"Shit," Spencer said, hand shading his eyes, and then the driver's side door popped open and Pete Wentz stepped out.

Because cars falling out of the sky weren't exactly commonplace, Brendon was pretty sure this Pete Wentz was the Pete Wentz who'd made mysterious late-night visits to his bedroom. Also, that was the single coolest thing Brendon had ever seen.

"What the fuck?" Brent tilted his head. "Seriously, what the fuck?"

"Greetings from the future, Gentlemen," Pete said, sauntering over and tossing Ryan what looked like a Sidekick. He slipped a set of keys into Spencer's hand and gestured behind him. "Your chariot."

Spencer frowned. "You're giving us a Buick Le Sabre?" he asked, staring down at the keys, as if that was the most puzzling factor in the entire situation, oh my god.

Pete Wentz. From the motherfucking _future_. And _the sky_ had just opened up and spat him out, and then it suddenly struck Brendon that they all seemed a little too calm, cool and collected, so he thought maybe he wasn't the only one who'd been waking up with Pete hovering over his bed.

Then Pete told them, "I'm giving you the entire fucking world," beaming, and Brendon thought that was a pretty sweeping statement.

"I'm confused," Brent said, and Pete countered, "I'm totally not surprised," and then he explained that, in the far, far distant future, their music would help bring about world peace and harmony. Only they kind of sucked at performing at the moment, and they'd have to make their first show _rock_ if they wanted to get signed.

After Spencer stopped laughing – he was crying a little, and had to lean on Ryan - he gasped, "You're giving us a _time traveling_ Buick Le Sabre?"

"Use the Sidekick," Pete said, completely un-offended. "The car's just a vehicle, since Sidekicks weren't built for multiple hitchers."

"You're _Pete Wentz_," Brent stressed dumbly.

"Actually, I'm the highly sophisticated PeteWentz3000 version 2.1," Pete said, "with improved karate-chop action."

"A robot?" Spencer asked, and Ryan pulled a disgusted face and went, "I made out with a robot?" at the same time Brendon said, "Oh, wow, I made out with a robot!" because _robot_! Spencer rolled his eyes.

"Look," Pete said, just as a Skylark skidded to a halt next to the Le Sabre, "my ride's here, so I gotta get going. You've got twenty-four hours of Sidekick power, guys." He cocked a finger at them, grinning. "Make the most of it."

"But." Ryan waved the Sidekick. "How does this even work?"

"All the important numbers are programmed in," he said, walking backwards towards the waiting Skylark. "Just don't start pushing random buttons, okay?" There was a gleam in his eyes, though, and Brendon thought pushing random buttons sounded _awesome_.

They watched him climb into the car, the driver at the wheel suspiciously Patrick-shaped, trucker hat and all, and then there was an audible pop and the Skylark disappeared.

"Is anyone else worried about the amount of robots in the future?" Brendon asked. Their music, world peace, androids. It was like an iRobot subplot. Or the Terminator. Robots were cool and all, but Brendon didn't want to be responsible for wiping out the entire human race.

"Seriously, guys," Brent said, "what's going on?"

*

"So does anyone want to talk about time paradoxes?" Spencer asked, reaching for the rear door handle on the Le Sabre.

"No," Brendon said. He climbed into the front seat, and then Ryan shoved him over and got behind the wheel, because, "Oh, no way. You are not navigating this boat," and Brent fidgeted nervously by the open back door.

Spencer dangled the keys over the seatback and Ryan snatched them before Brendon could, sliding them into the ignition. He revved the engine and rolled down the windows. "Come on, Brent."

"I'm not entirely comfort"

"Let's go! Time's a-wasting!" Brendon leaned over and honked the horn. A lot.

Brent sighed and slipped in next to Spencer.

"Okay." Ryan stared out the windshield, fingers gripping the steering wheel at two and ten. "You don't think this is some sort of elaborate ruse, do you?" he asked, slanting a look at Brendon.

"Pretty fucking elaborate," Brendon pointed out.

"Right." Ryan nodded. "Right, so." He let go of the wheel and thumbed open the Sidekick. "Where to first?"

*

The screen read "Jon" while it was dialing, which wasn't exactly helpful, and when the call connected it felt like the Le Sabre'd been sucked up by a tornado, spinning into oblivion, and Brendon was not entirely sure he wouldn't throw up.

Other than that, though, it was kind of awesome.

They screeched to a halt with a discernable thump and when the smoke cleared a boy was leaning onto the hood, palms spread and eyes wide.

"Oh my god," Brendon said. He straightened up in the bucket seat and grabbed the dash. "Oh my god, I think we _hit_ him." Great. Just _great_. Their first time on the road or whatever, _time highway_, and they ran someone over.

Then the guy shook his head and laughed and sort of dropped backwards and out of sight.

"Shit," Spencer yelped, and they all scrambled out of the car.

"Hey." Brendon sank to his knees where the dude was sprawled out, eyes open but dazed. "Hey, are you okay? Jesus, I can't_Ryan_ was driving"

"It's not exactly _driving_, dick," Ryan growled, slapping the back of his head.

Pressing a hand to his chest, the guy struggled upright and Brendon grabbed his shoulder, helping him into a sitting position, and then the guy stared at him and said, "Wow," and, "Fuck," and, "You came out of fucking _nowhere_, what the?"

"Hey, so this probably isn't the time, but what year is it?" Brent asked, hovering over them, and Spencer punched his shoulder.

The guy's eyes widened even more. "Um. 2004. November?"

"Seriously? Fuck it, guys, we didn't go"

"Yo, Jon!" someone called out behind them. "What're you doing?"

"Jon!" Ryan and Brendon chorused, and then Brendon turned to Brent and said, "It totally worked, Brent," with a smug grin.

Jon blinked at them. "Hello?"

The someone who'd called out was lounging in a doorway, the backdoor of what looked like a bar, loose as spaghetti and twice as thin, like he'd disappear if he turned sideways. He had pretty hair, though, and he moved like a cat, and he smiled at them, so. It was looking like maybe they'd get out of there without any cops getting involved, which was always a plus.

"Can you stand up?" Spencer asked Jon, and Jon laughed again.

"Dude, you didn't actually hit me, just." He shook his head, breathed out shakily. "It was close, though."

"Everything okay?" the someone asked, reaching down to give Jon a hand up.

"Bill, yeah, fine," Jon said, and then he turned to Brendon and said, "You should stay for the show."

*

"So Pete _motherfucking_ Wentz gives us this Sidekick, right? And this, like, ancient Buick Le Sabre that sort of rattles when you turn it on, and, seriously," Brendon leaned down and lowered his voice, although he didn't really need to, since the music was pretty loud, "it _travels through time_."

Jon blinked at him. "I love Pete and all, but that's weird even for him."

"No, no, it's"

"It's hard to explain," Ryan cut in dryly. Then he rubbed a hand over his forehead and said, "Wait, no, it's really not. It's just weird, you're right."

"Okay," Jon bobbed his head amiably, smiling, "so what are you doing here? Not exactly a time-hop, right?"

Brendon said, "We dialed you first," and Brent hovered over them and tapped his watch face and said, "Am I the only one worried about the time? We've only got twenty-four hours."

"Chill, Brent," Brendon said, pulling him down on the bench seat with him, and Jon stressed, "But why do you think you're _here_?"

"For you," Spencer said, all serious and intense, which was Brendon's favorite Spencer-mood. It was good to get close to him then, since he was strangely at his most tolerant, and Brendon squirmed in his seat, pouting, 'cause he was all the way on the other side of the booth and _missing out_.

"Well, probably for you," Ryan amended and elbowed Brendon in the side.

Brendon nodded. "You should come with us," he said, because they'd only known him for just about two hours, but Jon was totally cool and awesome and told the best stories that were, like, laugh-until-you-throw-up funny, and Brendon was already half in love with him. Plus, he knew Pete.

Jon arched an eyebrow. "I don't know. Where are you going next?"

Ryan took out the Sidekick and opened up the contact list. "Linnet," he said.

"Linnet, hey." Jon drummed his fingers on the tabletop, slick from their sweating Cokes. "Person, place or thing?"

"Who knows?" Spencer shrugged.

"Okay, then," Jon said.

Brendon squeezed Ryan's thigh under the table. _Yes_, he thought. "Okay."

*

When the Le Sabre rocked to a stop, Brendon was half in Jon's lap and Brent's knee was digging into his side. "Ow," he said, and then the smoke cleared, but the sky didn't.

It was drizzling steadily, gray and overcast, and the spread of brightly-colored tents in front of them looked drab and tattered, almost sad. The canvases were thick and sagging, and water pooled into mud-pits in the trampled, yellow-green grass.

"Wow, this is depressing," Ryan said.

"Seriously." Jon turned in his seat and gazed up and out of the rear window. "New York City, Madison Square Garden. Hey, look, the Greatest Show On Earth."

Ringling Brothers and Barnum &amp; Bailey. The damn circus.

Out of the car, rain slipped down Brendon's nose and he swiped his lips and pushed his damp hair off his face. "Okay, so. Linnet."

"Yes?"

Brendon jerked his head to the left, the flap of a candy-cane striped tent pulled back, and widened his eyes on a petite little thing in a frayed, short pink robe, thin legs underneath encased in red, red shimmery tights and feet in a pair of off-white slippers. Her face, though. Her face was a murder of crows, black against an orange-pink sunset, winging over her right cheek to meld into the perfect, thick line of kohl around her eye.

*

Linnet was French, spoke hesitant but charming English, was a tightrope walker with the bones of a bird, and Ryan wanted to bring her back with them.

"You can't bring her with us," Spencer said. Spencer was always the voice of reason.

The spidery branches of a winter tree crisscrossed over the right side of Ryan's face, and his eyes looked huge, smudged with black. "Brendon got Jon," Ryan said, and Spencer countered, "_We_ got Jon, and Jon is from our own time period, apparently, so it's not like it's going to be difficult to take him home."

Ryan grumbled under his breath and Brendon tuned them both out, because they were under the big top and Linnet was at least three stories up, and it was pretty much the greatest circus Brendon had ever been to. Inside, out of the rain and the thunderous sky, it was warm and loud and boisterous, the scent of popcorn and roasted peanuts wafting over them. Men in pinstriped suits had women in scandalously short skirts and heavy makeup on their arms, and there was something so very vintage and classic and _hedonistic_ about it at the same time.

The crowd gasped as Linnet bent forward, her feet angled, pigeon-toed and delicately placed on the thin wire, her frilly red umbrella catching air to help her balance. Upside-down she went, and over, and the applause was deafening, and Brendon leaned across Spencer and tugged on Ryan's sleeve. "She wouldn't leave, anyway," he said, because who would leave this?

Ryan was staring starry-eyed up at her, mouth slightly parted and curled up at the edges, and when she blew them a kiss, Ryan's hands clenched on his thighs.

*

"I'm going to be a showman," Brendon announced, getting back into the Le Sabre.

"Oh, yeah?" Spencer gave him an amused smirk.

"_Yes_, Spencer Smith." Brendon leaned into his side, hooking their arms together. He was going to be the best showman _ever_.

Spencer squirmed and tried to extricate his arm and growled, "Brendon," under his breath, but Brendon knew if he held on long enough, Spencer would just give in and let him stay. Brendon suspected he didn't hate the clinging half as much as he said he did.

Ryan was quiet as he started the engine, then pulled out the Sidekick, and Jon, shotgun this time, cupped the back of his neck and jostled him a little.

"Hey," Jon said softly, and Brendon leaned forward between the seats to hear better, "what now?"

Ryan shrugged, and Brendon let Spencer go to grab the Sidekick from his unresisting hand. He scrolled past Linnet and punched "Lollapalooza" and said, "So it looks like this one isn't a person," and then they were gone.

*

Backstage at Lollapalooza was _insane_, and it was hot as hell and really fucking easy to slip in practically unnoticed. It helped that the Le Sabre had landed inside the line of event security, and despite the blatant lack of IDs, nobody questioned their presence. It was late in the day, twilight, the crowd a roar of mingled voices, some shouting for the band up front – The Ramones, _cool_ – and most probably completely slaughtered by alcohol and the dripping heat.

They were at the indie-stage and it looked like some band named Moonshake was set up. A harried girl with a clipboard caught sight of them and asked, "Who are you?"

Brendon blinked at her. "Clay Aiken."

The girl blinked back. "Okay."

Ryan shot Brendon a _look_, and Brendon shrugged.

"What _band_ are you in," she elaborated, like he was an idiot.

Jon bumped Brendon's shoulder with his and said, "Luscious Jackson."

"Dude," Ryan hissed, "that's, like, a real band. Of _chicks_," but the girl with the clipboard just hustled them forward and said, "Moonshake's gone AWOL and I don't have time for this shit, so you're going to go on now, and they'll go on later, and hopefully the crowd won't rush the stage and kill us all, so."

Brendon furrowed his brow as he stumbled out onto the stage. "These things don't just _happen_, do they?" he asked Jon.

"I'm beginning to think they pretty much do," Jon said, smiling.

The crowd was screaming and Ryan picked up a guitar, fingers visibly awkward on the unfamiliar body, and Spencer settled gingerly behind the Moonshake drum kit, shaking his hair back off his face. He air-drummed, loosening his wrists, then pounded out a few beats of _Lying_ and grinned.

Brent hung back and shook his head and said, "No way. No _way_. This is _stupid_," and Brendon looked at Jon and asked, "You?"

"I've heard I play a mean bass."

*

"Fucking serendipity, dude," Brendon said, slapping Jon on the back. "You were _awesome_."

"We sucked," Spencer pointed out. He was still grinning though, and his cheeks were flushed.

Brendon laughed. "I _know_." They'd completely sucked ass, and it was the single greatest moment of his young life. "It was so cool!"

Ryan was quietly glowing, sweat smearing the painted tree near his hairline, and he draped himself over Spencer's back, arms curling loosely around his neck.

They'd played four songs, and Brendon'd forgotten half the words to _Relax Relapse_ and Jon had been flying blind – the good kind of blind, though, the amazing kind, really, with super cool improvisations - and there'd been something missing in the sound, something lush, but Brendon had strutted the stage and flirted with Ryan and thought _bigger_. Whatever they did back home had to be bigger and grander and Brendon hadn't been lying. He was going to be a fucking showman, a ringleader, and everyone was going to love him.

*

They skipped. They slip-slid in the muddy clay of the river Niger, tribal rhythms vibrating over the African plains and through their teeth, an unspecified and timeless year. They huddled in an alcove in the courtyard of Versailles, strains of Pink Floyd floating around and above them, _A Momentary Lapse of Reason_.

Jon could twist like a pro, and shook his ass on _Bandstand_, the old studio packed with rebellious teens, and in the dark turn of a forest, Spencer lost his belt, watch, wallet, sunglasses, _shoes_, almost _everything_ to a quick-fingered, sloe-eyed gypsy who told him he had a romantic soul.

They almost lost Brent in the pit of a Blink-182 concert, and Brendon had been mesmerized by the sheer amount of _breasts_ in a London burlesque club, and by the time they landed in the dusty American mid-west, the Le Sabre was coughing up ominous black smoke and the Sidekick was down to three bars of power.

"Overheated," Jon said, buried under the hood. "Think someone would give us a jug of water?"

Brendon cupped a hand over his eyes and squinted into the sunny distance. There was a town. Not much of one, but it was there.

They walked, and Brendon's mouth was completely dry and his head was pounding and he let everyone know it, because he was _not happy_. They'd been on the road for nearly sixteen hours, and he was completely exhausted and drained.

There were only a handful of buildings in the outpost, train-tracks running along the edge of town. A feed and supply store dominated one end, and the tallest, a two storey, sat pretty and worn like faded elegance on the complete opposite. The paint was chipping, but the railing around the second floor balcony was almost delicately carved, and though the walls were made of the same clapboard as every other building, they were a dark, velvety green, only the top half dulled by hours of beating sunlight. A cathouse. A fairly prosperous cathouse, by the looks of it, and _of course_ Pete had this on their list.

Three horses and a sorry-looking mule were hitched outside of the saloon, and a guy chewing half a cigar was leaning on a post, one leg up and eyes hard under his battered, wide-brimmed hat.

Jon grabbed hold of Brendon's arm and tugged him quickly past and murmured, "Don't talk, okay?" which was really sort of offensive, but whatever.

"I want a nap," he whined, and Jon stepped close and whispered in his ear, "We're dressed fucking odd for this place, okay, so shut up," and Jon had never been sharp or mean to him before, so Brendon pouted.

Then a voice boomed, "Well, now. Ain't you a pretty thing," and it took a second or two for Brendon to realize that the huge bear of a man was addressing _Spencer_, and Ryan had his claws out before Jon could even slap a hand over his mouth.

*

The girls upstairs were genuine sweethearts.

"Thanks so much," Brendon said earnestly, squished between Mandy and Charlene and their truly stupendous breasts. He was having trouble concentrating.

Charlene, blonde and plump, tangled her fingers in his hair. "Ain't no trouble, Mr. Bren. You boys are just little bits of cuteness, aren't they, Mandy?"

Mandy nodded and snaked an arm around Brendon's waist, leaning into his shoulder, boobs nearly spilling out of her low-cut dress. He could see the tops of her nipples. Jesus.

"I think maybe I'll keep this one," Sally Ann said, perched on Jon's lap, small hands locked behind his neck. She nosed his cheek and Jon arched his eyebrows high and then higher at Brendon.

Brendon grinned back. Then squeaked when Mandy's hand got a little too friendly, and Jon laughed while Brendon pushed her away as nicely as he possibly could and said, "Um, I don't think"

"Oh, what's a little fun, Mr. Bren?" she cooed and Brendon thought he really didn't want to go back home with a venereal disease, thanks very much, no matter how tempting this all was.

"No, really," Brendon said, shaking his head, "I'm fine, so." He glared at Jon, who was still laughing, the asshole.

Mandy pouted, but settled for cuddling into Brendon's side, and then Viv swept in, a sullen Spencer trailing behind her, Brent behind _him_, looking completely wigged out.

"He's okay. Just maybe a black eye, nothing's broken," Spencer said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "He's resting."

Brendon wrinkled his nose. They didn't have a whole lot of time left. Resting sounded great, though.

"Your little girl took real good care of him," Viv said, smiling brightly and patting Spencer's arm, and Spencer snapped, "For the last time, I'm _not_ a little girl."

Brendon snickered, because that was going to be the best running gag in history, and Sally Ann chided, "Don't be in such a rush to grow up, sugar."

Spencer fisted his hands on his hips. "Oh my god, _please_, Brendon, tell them I'm not a girl."

"You're my best girl," Brendon said instead and, _god_, he knew he was going to pay for that, like, _so much_, but the look on Spencer's face was totally worth it.

"I'm going to kill you," Spencer growled, jaw tight, but then Samantha called out, "Y'all hungry?" and they were all _starving_, so Brendon was granted a very small reprieve.

*

By the time they made it back to the car, three hours had passed. It was dark, but the car, cooled minutely by twilight and sitting dormant for a while, started up on the second try. Jon adjusted the rearview mirror and grinned at Brendon.

Ryan was slumped next to him in the backseat, gingerly poking at his cheek, and Brendon slapped his hand away.

"Don't play with it," he said, and then asked, "Where's the Sidekick?"

"Here." Ryan shifted and pulled it out of his back pocket. He grimaced. "Oops."

"Oops, what?" Spencer asked, grabbing it out of his hands. "It's already dialing."

"Yeah. I think maybe it cracked a little, too, when I landed on my ass back there," he said, cradling his jaw.

Brendon leaned over Ryan's lap, craning his neck to see the display. "What's it say?"

"Unavailable," Spencer said, and then the Le Sabre sputtered a kickback and whooshed into the sky.

*

"Where are we?" Ryan asked in a hush. It was too quiet, the only sound the hiss of the engine cooling, and the Sidekick was still flashing "unavailable."

Brendon pushed his door open and stepped out, his sneakers squeaking on the marble floor and echoing around the room. The guys followed, cautiously making their way out of the car and into the cavernous circular hall. The place wasn't empty, though. It was completely packed with statues, the only open space in the center, where the Le Sabre was still smoking.

"Okay, this is weird," Spencer said, and Brendon nodded. Weird.

It was a circus, but not anything like the one they'd enjoyed at Madison Square Garden hours before, vibrant and lively and _real_.

This circus was flash-frozen, half painted in bright colors with no clear patterns, half icy-white, and all eerily detailed, like the figures were alive, _had been_ alive underneath their shells. One horse, caught mid-rear, mouth open with teeth bared and eyes wild, had whorls of red and yellow on its flanks, blue flecking its muzzle, flames flaring up from its slender ankles, yet its neck was still blank clay, its chest a solid expanse of white.

There were people, too, with elaborate masks and delicately sculpted fingers and Brendon reached out to touch a girl settled on a saddle, her knee hooked around the pommel and her toe outstretched, her neck tilted so elegantly he swore he could see her pulse point thump.

"Hi," someone said, and Brendon snatched his hand back and spun around.

"Is that. Is that Gerard Way?" Ryan whispered, and Brendon nodded, because that was totally Gerard Way, long dark hair and round face and elastic smile. There was a thin paintbrush tucked over his left ear, a streak of black along his jaw, and his fingers were red at the tips, smearing over the front of his shirt as he wiped his hands and walked towards them.

"Welcome to the Hall of Destination. You're." His eyes widened. "Oh, wow. You're _you_."

"We're us," Brendon said, rocking back on his heels. Agreeable seemed to be the way to go for the moment.

"Cool," Gerard said, and his eyes crinkled up at the corners, happy.

"So." Jon shoved his hands in his pockets, gaze wandering around the room. "Hall of Destination?"

Gerard shrugged, waving an expansive hand. "Everyone ends up here eventually. It's sort of a time hub, though I don't think any of you have been here before." He winked at them. "You should check out the poster display."

Brendon nodded, wondering what sort of poster display there was, and why it was important, and why Gerard Way, looking very much the same as always, was, apparently, steadily painting his way around a room full of creepily life-like statues. "What's with the?" He gestured with his chin.

"They say it's harmony." Gerard rubbed his palm along the thigh of the girl Brendon'd been admiring, unconcerned with the tracks of red his fingers left. "I just like the horses."

Spencer narrowed his eyes. "You're not a robot, are you?"

"No." Gerard laughed. "But a Pete Wentz android gave my band a Buick Lucerne."

"Son of a bitch," Spencer hissed, and Gerard shook his head, still laughing.

"Don't worry," he said. "You're not stuck here or anything. Now," he clasped Spencer's shoulder, "anything I can help you guys with?"

"I think our Sidekick's broken," Ryan said, holding it out.

Gerard's nimble, red-stained fingers traced the crack webbing out over the battery casing. He poked around, pressed a few buttons, then said, "Nah, this is fine, just a little battered. Looks like this was just a misdial." He looked up, pinning them with bright eyes. "Any nonexistent numbers get transferred here."

Ryan frowned and took the cell back. "You sure?"

"Hey," Brent called out, voice echoing. "Hey, Ryan, come look at this."

The shout came from the left, and they all went, Gerard winding behind them as they slipped in between the maze of statues, and when they found Brent, standing in front of one of the rare fully-painted figures, Ryan gasped, fingers to his lips.

It was Linnet. A perfect replica, her face the same as the day they'd met, half-hidden by black crows, her eyes, a deep brown, gently laughing.

"She looks like you, Ryan," Gerard said softly, placing a hand on his shoulder.

She looked like a ballerina, her body a graceful curve, arms raised, the same red umbrella hooked over her hand, the frills, up close, patches of satin roses, and she _did_ look like Ryan. Brendon hadn't noticed that before.

"Your grandmother, maybe," Spencer offered, and Ryan shook his head.

"I don't know. I mean, no, my family's all from Nevada," he said absently, tracing the soft line of Linnet's jaw, like she would break if he pressed too hard.

Behind her, on the wall, were posters.

Huge and almost garishly bright, stretching from floor to ceiling and separated by heavy red drapes, so long they puddled in thick folds on the floor. Brendon was in most of them, a sly gleam in his eyes and a smirk on his lips. Spencer and Ryan were in others, with Brendon or with each other or alone.

Jon was in a lot, too, boyish and scruffy next to their heavily-painted faces, their eyes lined in black and shadowed, nearly all of Ryan's right cheek an artistic mask, but Brendon was particularly interested in the one that showed the two of them together, holding hands and grinning loosely, practically in each other's laps, Brendon's face half-buried in Jon's neck.

There was only one of Brent, and he looked kind of pissed off in it. Huh.

No one mentioned that, though, and Brendon certainly wasn't going to bring it up, so he waggled his brows at Jon and said, "We seem awfully close in these."

Jon just stared at him, mouth quirked in a small grin.

For some reason, that made Brendon's throat dry up. "Right, um," Brendon coughed, "we ready to get moving?"

*

Despite Gerard's assurances, it was clear something wasn't firing right when they ended up in the middle of the ocean. On a pirate ship.

They wisely stayed inside the car.

"Dial, _dial_," Brendon shouted, because some really ugly, unwashed, angry guys were surrounding them, brandishing cutlasses.

"The car's off," Jon said, jerking the key in the ignition again and again. And again. It whirred and coughed and stalled out, and he banged his forehead on the steering wheel. "Shit."

"Lock the doors," Spencer yelped, just as a fist thumped down on the windshield, a maniacally grinning, toothless hulk peering down at them.

"Okay," Jon said, then he mumbled something under his breath - a prayer, maybe, or a curse - and turned the key again and, thank _fuck_, the engine caught.

"Dial now," Brendon said, heart pounding in his throat, hitting the seatback in front of him, Jon's seatback, with the flat of his palm, and he watched as a pistol butt came towards his window in slow motion, could see the glass give and crack into a million pieces but _hold_, and then they disappeared.

*

"Fuck." Brendon pushed open his door and tumbled onto the grass, retching. "Fuck," he spat. "Christ." He didn't think he'd ever been so scared in his entire life. _Pirates_. Damn it, pirates were supposed to be _cool_.

There was a hand on his neck and he tilted his head to see Jon kneeling beside him, worried frown on his face.

"Okay?" Jon asked.

"Peachy." He felt wrung out, sick. " Fuck." He kinda wanted to go home.

"Hey," Jon said, half hugging him. "Hey, it's all right, man."

Brendon was absolutely not going to cry. _Definitely_ not in front of Jon, of course, but he thought if he started crying, he wouldn't be able to stop. He was so _tired_, and he always got a little punchy and emotional when he was tired.

"They would've _killed_ us, Jon," Brendon breathed.

Jon grinned, squeezed Brendon's nape. "Nah. Spencer would've sweet-talked them with his feminine wiles."

Spencer snorted an indignant, "Hey!" and Brendon laughed a little, choked and half-hysterical, flopping over onto his back and staring up at the sky, the cool sweet grass a nice cushion.

Ryan sat down next to him and tugged on the ends of his hair.

"Where are we?" Brendon asked him, batting his hand away.

"Don't know."

"Where are we _supposed_ to be?" Brendon clarified.

Ryan squinted at the Sidekick. "Says Iowa," he said, and then the phone started ringing, John Mellencamp's _Little Pink Houses_, and he dropped it, startled. He looked at Brendon, then Jon, then over his shoulder where Spencer and Brent were leaning against the car.

"Answer it," Spencer urged.

Brendon grabbed for it and slipped it open. "Hello?"

"Hey," Pete's voice was tinny and very far away, "how're you holding up?"

He mouthed 'Pete' to the others, then said, "Okay."

"Good, good. So. Sorry about the pirates."

"That was _on purpose_?" Brendon growled, jerking upright, and Pete said insistently, "Teamwork! Life or death situations are great bonding experiences!"

"I almost got my _skull bashed in_."

"Oh, come on. That'll make a cool story one day."

"Yeah," Brendon said, "to someone who thinks I'm insane or a really bad liar, since it's a story about a _time traveling_ Buick and _pirates_."

There was a pause. Then Pete asked, "You don't think that's cool?"

"Well. _Yeah_, but." Brendon sighed. Pete was kind of right.

"There, see? You can't do time travel and _not_ see pirates. It's, like, a rule." Pete laughed. "All right, so. Get your asses out of Iowa and back on the road, okay? You've only got about four hours left."

*

"Oh," Ryan said, and Brendon breathily echoed, "_Oh_," and the Sidekick had dialed "Mission Creek," but the neon sign flashed Pancakes, bright and pink and pretty.

Pete's guide to time traveling may've been more than a little odd, but hey. Brendon was hungry, and right at that moment he might actually have prostituted himself for some hash browns.

Spencer kind of looked disgruntled – which was baffling, because, hey, _pancakes_! – but Brendon slipped his hand into his and tugged him inside after Ryan and Jon and said, "Pancakes, Spencer!" poking him into a booth. "Fluffy morsels of heavenly goodness!"

The scowl Spencer shot him was almost pure death, but Brendon could've sworn there was a smile behind his eyes.

The diner waitress was older than dirt, wore tiny little half-moon glasses and her knuckles were swollen knots and she didn't write anything down.

"Body might be failing," she told them, tapping a gnarled finger to her temple, "but mind's still sharp as ever."

Brendon thought that would've been sweet if she hadn't gotten half their order wrong.

Still. After a stack of the best damn pancakes ever griddled, Brendon was refueled and raring to go.

Which was a good thing, since they ended up at, Like, Ohmygod, Stacey's Spectacular Summer Fun Party.

"They talk like you," Ryan whispered, giggling, and Brendon glared at him.

They were lurking on the porch, cups of punch warming in their hands, and the chatter around them was filled with, "Like, this is the best party ever, Susie, I swear," and, "Totally," and, "Oh, like, did you hear there's, like, a totally awesome band, too?" and Brendon parroted, "Like, really?" without even thinking about it, and the small group of girls turned towards them as one, like – god, he was so never using that word again - a flock of overly-teased cockatiels or something.

Brent whimpered and ducked behind Spencer.

"Who're _you_?" one of them sneered, tossing her hair over a shoulder. She was wearing entirely too much pink. It hurt Brendon's eyes.

"We're the band," Jon said and, honestly, they always blamed Brendon, but half the things they ended up doing were really all Jon Walker's fault.

Another one rolled her eyes and held up a hand, spangle bracelets rattling down to her elbow. "Ohmygod, that's, like, so lame that you're lying like that. I bet you don't even, like, _know_ Stacey."

Which was obviously, like, the tragedy of the year. For real.

Jon nodded earnestly. "No, really, we are. We know Pete."

The girls' eyes lit up, squealing was involved, and whether or not they were talking about the same Pete was apparently inconsequential. Although when they finally wound their way into the den, the set-up led Brendon to believe that PeteWentz3000 version 2.1 with improved karate-chop action got around.

Also, he'd apparently ripped off My Chemical Romance.

"Can you play rhythm guitar?" Brendon asked as Jon gingerly picked up Pansy.

"Depends." Jon strummed lightly, head bent. He looked up at Brendon through his lashes. "Can we cover Roxette?"

"Oh, yeah, baby. Totally." Brendon grinned. "And Men Without Hats."

Ryan picked out the beginning notes of _The Safety Dance_, and it sounded weird without a synthesizer, recognizable but hollow. Brendon was pretty sure the kids were going to hate them.

*

They rocked the fuck out of bubblegum pop - eat your heart out, Debbie Gibson - and then stumbled out onto the porch, laughing, because they just played a Valley party with My Chemical Romance's filched instruments, and some yellow-polo-shirt-wearing douchebag chucked a _plastic cup_ at Brendon's head, and seriously. What-the-fuck-ever.

They _rocked_.

*

When they finally sputtered to a halt outside Spencer's house, Sidekick flashing a depressing low battery message, the Skylark was there waiting for them. Pete was leaning against the passenger side door, arms crossed, a huge pair of sunglasses accompanying a big, toothy grin on his face.

Jon said, "That's kind of creepy."

Brendon nodded. "Dude, I know."

"Hey," Pete pushed off the Buick and moved towards them as they climbed out of the Le Sabre, "welcome back, kids. Did we have fun?"

"We had lots of fun," Brendon said, grinning.

"Looks it." Pete cupped Ryan's chin and whistled. "Got a bit of a shiner there, huh?"

"Yeah, um." Ryan held up the cracked Sidekick. "Had an accident."

Pete shook his head, slid off his sunglasses and settled them on the end of Ryan's nose. "No problem," he said, pushing the bridge back so the enormous frames covered nearly half his face, then ruffling Ryan's hair over his forehead. "All better."

"Pete."

"Jon," Pete said, nodding at him.

"This." Jon shook his head, rueful, and Pete cuffed his shoulder.

"Oh, whatever, you loved it," Pete said, leaning forward and sliding him into a tight half-hug against his side. "You love me. I'm the best robot ever. Now say goodbye to your boyfriends so I can take you home."

"What if we don't want you to take him home?" Brendon asked, frowning. He wanted to _keep_ Jon. It wasn't fair that he had to go away.

"No choice, my little Brendon," Pete said, releasing Jon to palm the back of Brendon's head, planting a smacking kiss on his forehead. "You'll see him in a few months, all right? I promise, scouts honor." He did some sort of hand thing that didn't look remotely scout-like, then said, "And you'll have all the fixin's. Boy-love, marriage, Canadian babies, okay?"

Brendon blinked. Canadian babies?

Jon snorted, and Brendon made grabby-hands at him, because he wanted a _hug_, damn it, a big hug, and he wanted to remember the way Jon fit against him forever.

Brendon ducked his chin and mashed his face up against Jon's throat and breathed him in, his arms around Jon's waist and flat on his lower back. Jon tucked his own hands up under Brendon's shirt and chuckled, nose to Brendon's temple, and said, "Hey," low and soft, and Brendon whispered, "I'll miss you," lips brushing his skin.

After one last squeeze, Jon let him go, and Brendon reluctantly stepped back, a light scowl curling his mouth down as he watched Jon hug Ryan and Spencer, bump Brent's fist with his own.

"Hurry it up," Pete said, snapping his fingers. "I've got a date with the Way brothers."

"Gerard's gonna be pissed you stole their stuff," Jon pointed out.

Pete shrugged, opening the driver's side of the Le Sabre and settling behind the wheel. "I charge Gerard's Sidekick for him. He owes me. Move your ass, Walker."

Jon gave them a small wave and a small smile, said, "Bye, guys," and then slid in next to Pete.

"Road trip!" Pete whooped as he turned over the engine, and then he peeled out, the Skylark following a second behind.

Brendon sighed, somewhat lost standing there on the sidewalk, a lot tired, mainly sad, and he felt a hand slip into his. He started a little when he spotted Spencer, when Spencer smiled at him and tangled their fingers together, 'cause Spencer had never done that before. Progress. Cool.

*

The meeting with the real Pete Wentz over the demo sort of went, "Hi, I'm Pete," and, "Hi, I'm Ryan," and, "I'm Spencer," and, "I'm Brent," and then there was possibly, probably, what might be called an inappropriately tight hug from Brendon. He mumbled, "Hi," against Pete's neck, but he wasn't sure if anyone could hear him.

"He's almost housebroken," Spencer said, patting his head affectionately.

Pete just grinned. "Okay," he said. "So let's see what you can do."

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, wow, I actually did some research for this. Amazing, right? Most places were kept purposefully vague, since I highly doubt Brendon would've been able to figure out exact timelines. So here are just a few notes on some of the places they ended up:  
> Ringling Brothers and Barnum &amp; Bailey, the combined circus, first debuted at Madison Square Garden in 1919, so think roaring 20s here, before the depression.  
> The Lollapalooza featured is the 1996 North American tour. Line-up is accurate – bands, not times - as well as the debut of the indie-stage, but I couldn't find out the exact touring cities. As far as I know, Moonshake never went AWOL. I'm pretty sure that was Pete's doing; let's pretend he locked them in a van or something.  
> Summer of 1988 is when Pink Floyd was in Versailles, France.  
> Bandstand is the precursor of American Bandstand, filmed and aired locally here in Philly (of which my mom was a young studio kid, so that probably dates me) in the early-to-mid 1950's – the Twist didn't come about until the 60's, but I figured the boys wouldn't know the difference, nor any of the correct dance terms.  
> The others – gypsies, the old west, pirates, Valley girls - are pretty self-explanatory, right?


End file.
